


A Great Heart

by Jaelijn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Brotherly Love, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Gen or Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft's POV, POV First Person, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, depending on your POV of Holmes & Watson really, really wanted to tag the character as dr watson, this is odd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: Mycroft is disturbed in his routine by his worried brother – and when it comes to glimpses of Sherlock Holmes's heart...





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have started migrating my old Holmesian fic from my LJ days to AO3. I do very little editing to these, and will also backdate them to when they originally came out. I fancy I am now a better writer, but for the sake of the "archive" element of AO3, and because I am still fond of these works, here you are.  
> Also a note re: slash - I wrote all of these as Gen pieces, but have since realised that what I'd been writing might as well have been slash without sex. So feel free to read these as slash as much as you like. 
> 
> Original Author's Note: For [Challenge 016 at watsons_woes (LJ)](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/408238.html). Takes place shortly after Holmes's retirement (1903 according to Sherlockians Klinger and Baring-Gould), early 1904. For the purpose of this ficlet, Watson married only once / is not married when this takes place.

For many years, I had been firm in the belief that the human heart was nothing but an organ, if a vital one. This might certainly be considered a cynic physician's point of view, but I am not – at least, not the latter. I suppose all men drawn to the Diogenes club share a somewhat cynical philosophy. There is the intellect and the body, nothing else and nothing in between. However – it may be that I am just growing old – I have learnt to appreciate a secondary meaning of the word 'heart'.

There are those who seem to see the heart as the very core of being, as the source of all feelings, particularly those of affection (I was quite startled to receive a card the other day, decorated to abundance with hearts, begging me, the apparently 'handsomer brother of Sherlock Holmes' for a meeting... but I digress).

It would never have occurred to me to think of a heart as another person, used as I was to seeing the very abysses of human nature even in my line of work, and certainly in some acquaintances of my past. It would never have occurred to me that my brother, unsociable as he was, or rather loathing any kind of affection as he did, would ever adapt such a point of view. Affection of whatever kind had merely been an interference to his deductions, and I did agree with him – but that was before we both knew a certain army doctor by the name of John H. Watson.

Many years later, just after Sherlock had decided to retire to the countryside – both to my relief and surprise – I received a telegram from my brother, asking me to watch over his heart where he could not due to the miles between his new home and London. Now, I must say that Sherlock and I are in the habit of keeping our telegrams to each other somewhat cryptic – a method we acquired, I think, during Sherlock's supposed death. During that time, we had gotten into the habit of referring to Dr Watson as 'our mutual friend', both for Sherlock's safety and for the good Doctor's; however, there was no doubt in my mind as to the subject of Sherlock's new and overly romantic description, as much as I had not the shred of a doubt that the sentiment behind the word was true. There was no person in the world so vital to Sherlock, not even myself.

I had observed that, whatever my brother lacked, Dr Watson was able to supply, and he certainly was an expert in all matters of emotion, while Sherlock was woefully ill-informed on such things.

At any rate, I had no doubt that Dr Watson was more than able to fend for himself if he survived so many years at my brother's side, and so, aside from an occasional enquiry, I let the man be (no doubt Sherlock would be pestering him with telegrams and telephone calls already).

It was, however, some two month after Sherlock's retirement that I received a rather startling phone call from my brother in the middle of the night. I had been working late, else, I would probably have ignored the infernal device, but as things stood, I answered.

“Mycroft, thank heavens. You have to go to Watson. The last train is long gone, and I can't be in London until morning. I fear...”

To my horror, my brother's voice cracked, adding another disturbance to his already distorted voice – the telephone certainly was far from a perfected technology (I, for one, would find an alternative to that ringing!). “Sherlock, whatever is the matter? Calm yourself, or you will be giving yourself a heart attack.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I hope this is not what has happened.”

“What _are_ you talking about?”

“Watson, of course! I was just talking to him, and suddenly he cried out and was cut off!”

“Have you tried calling him back?”

“Yes, of course. He doesn't answer. Mycroft, I beg you...”

“You know how I loathe any disturbance of my routine-”

“Mycroft...”

“-but I will drive to the Doctor's and enquire what has happened.”

“Thank you.”

Suffice to say, soon I was bundled up in a cab, speeding towards Dr Watson's practice, above which he inhabited a small flat. There had been some discussion, I remember, whether he would stay at Baker Street, but I think neither Sherlock nor he wanted to stay, now that their faithful landlady was gone. At any rate, Watson seemed to have settled into his new lodgings well, perhaps more so now that he had once again the permission to publish my brother's exploits.

When I stepped out of the cab, the house lay in complete darkness, but I was not surprised. It was, after all, the middle of the night, and Watson's study lay at the far end of the house. I knocked on the front door, waiting for someone to hear me.

Dr Watson had no landlady, only an assistant that came to help in the surgery, but returned to his own abode in the evening. If someone were to answer the door, then, it would be Dr Watson himself.

Several minutes passed and I found myself becoming equally as nervous as Sherlock had sounded. If something had happened to the Doctor – he was no young man anymore, after all – I would have to break down the door, or call the Yard, but even so, if it was serious, it could already be too late to save him. Having watched the Doctor grieve for my brother for three years, I dreaded to think what his death might do, in turn, to Sherlock.

However, suddenly a candle flickered in one of the windows – in the surgery, much to my surprise – and the door was opened. “Mr Holmes? To what do I owe this visit? Please, come in.”

To me, Watson looked perfectly fine. He was casually dressed, although it was quite evident that he had not yet prepared to retire. He led me up into his sitting room.

“It's not your brother, is it? I have just talked to him, and he seemed perfectly fine. Should I catch the first train...”

Although I would have been greatly amused if the Doctor had taken the train to Sussex only to see that Sherlock had taken the train to London, I hurried to reassure him. “As far as I can gather, Sherlock is fine but for undue worry for you. He tells me your conversation was cut off?”

For a moment, Dr Watson looked startled, but then, realisation dawned on his face. “Good heavens, I completely forgot! Holmes must have been worried – I will call him immediately.” Without a second glance at me, the Doctor hurried into his study, the adjacent room, and gathered up the receiver, which was dangling in the air, held only by the cord. Soon, he was connected to my brother.

“Holmes? ... Yes, I'm fine. Nothing happened. I just... dropped the receiver. ... No, there is no need, stay with your bees. ... Your brother is here. ... I'm fine, Holmes, really. ... I'm sorry. The device seems to be faulty, I heard no ringing. I will call in a technician tomorrow. ... Goodnight to you, too, old friend.” The doctor leant back, a small smile curling his lips, and rubbed his left wrist.

“I must compliment you, Dr Watson. Not many people can lie to my brother without him noticing it.”

Watson looked at me, frowning, then broke into a smile. “I am sorry, Mr Holmes. I keep forgetting that you are equally as perceptive as Holmes, if not more so. I may not have told the entire truth, but Holmes shouldn't worry himself unduly. He seems to find it hard enough to adjust to retirement, I wouldn't want him to rush to London because I sprained my wrist.”

“I see. Then you were injured?”

“It's nothing. My old wound has been hurting lately, and my leg gave way as I was talking to Holmes – I tried to steady myself on the table and failed. I went to the surgery to fetch the bandage, and completely forgot about the telephone.” He showed me his wrist, which was wrapped in a thin layer of white bandages. “I'm sorry you had to come here. I'm just glad it was late, or Holmes would no doubt have travelled to London.”

“No doubt,” I agreed. “Your patience with my brother is extraordinary.”

Watson smiled again. “So I have been told.”

“Well, I am relieve that he does not have to worry about vital organ failure yet.”

“Beg you pardon?”

“A private joke, Dr Watson, forgive me.” However, I had spoken the truth – as long as Dr Watson was there, I hardly had to worry about Sherlock's safety, and neither, I think, the Doctor had reason to worry about his own. “I am glad you are fine.”

“So am I. Still, it is always quite an honour to get a glimpse of Holmes's heart.” Watson rose. “I will accompany you to the door.”

“Certainly. I will leave you to your sleep – Sherlock's unhealthy and erratic hours seem to influence us all.”

“I don't mind.”

“So I have gathered. Well, Doctor, I hope we meet again at more sociable hours. It is, indeed, always an honour to be assured that my brother has a heart.”

Watson smiled a kind-hearted, if slightly mischievous smile. “Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

“Ah. I seem to keep forgetting that your published accounts vastly downplay your own faculties of perception. Good-night, Doctor.”


End file.
